


Stop Thinking About Tomorrow

by themusicmakers



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: First Time, M/M, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 15:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5971270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themusicmakers/pseuds/themusicmakers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damen and Nikandros, one tent, and one thunderstorm on the road to Ios.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop Thinking About Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to J, R, and N, who ship it.
> 
> I'd recommend having read Kings Rising before this just so you know who Nikandros is, but there are no spoilers for the plot of Book 3.

They are on their way back from the Kingsmeet, after a ceremony naming three new kyroi. They were hoping to make it back to Ios before nightfall, but the winds have turned, and the rumblings of a winter storm are heavy on the air. The commanding officer orders the party off the road. They were prepared for inclement weather, the Akielon winter being notoriously unpredictable, and camp is quickly set up so that by the time the first rains begin to fall, Damen is already ensconced in his tent. He has just dismissed his slaves, and is warming himself at the fire pit when the opening of the tent rustles. Nikandros’s tousled head pokes in.

“Room for one more?” He waves two bottles of wine as incentive. Damen grins, and gestures him to sit next to the fire.

Nikandros sits down and passes one of the bottles to Damen. Damen grabs it and removes the stopper with his teeth as Nikandros does the same. Damen raises his bottle in a toast. “To the kyroi of Delpha!”

“To me!” Nikandros cheers, clinking the neck of his bottle against Damen’s own. 

Damen laughs. “You started your celebration without me, I see.”

“Just a bit,” Nikandros says. He tosses the cork of his bottle into the fire, and watches the flames crackle and spit as the cork is consumed. 

Damen takes a sip of his wine. “I confess, I am still getting used to the idea,” he says.

“Of my being a kyroi?”

Damen shrugs. “Of Delpha being ours, of you being a kyroi…” He takes a swig from the bottle. “In such a short amount of time, life has changed drastically, and I feel as though I am still catching up.”

They sit silently for a time, listening to the rain gaining in intensity. Damen watches Nikandros’s face as he drinks, head tilted back, hair falling around his shoulders, lips curved around the bottle. Damen shifts a bit on his cushion. “Do you have any plans for when you get to Delpha?” he asks, lowering his head, fingers beating a quiet tattoo against his knee. Nikandros lowers the bottle.

“Damen.”

Damen’s eyes raise to meet Nikandros’s. Nikandros sighs. “Do not treat me differently because of this.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was.”

“You’re thinking about it.” Nikandros says. “You’re thinking of what might be. Stop thinking.”

“I was –“ Damen stops when a two fingers are placed against his mouth.

“Stop,” Nikandros repeats. “I am now Kyros of Delpha, and some day you will be King. Damianos, stop contemplating the whats and whens and hows of life.” He pauses, as though waiting for Damen to speak.

Damen is too focused on Nikandros’s hand, still held against his lips.

He had thought of Nikandros, of course he had. They were of an age, and had shared in all things. Damen remembers when Nikandros had run to him, an excited boy of thirteen, and told him in hushed whispers of his first time with a slave. And Damen had done the same, a year later. Nikandros knows him better than any person in the world, and Damen knows the same of him.

And there is no denying Nikandros’s beauty. He drifts his gaze across Nikandros’s features, from his dark curled hair to his full lips. What would it feel like, he wonders, to grab that hair in his hands, to feel those lips against his?

He meets Nikandros’s eyes, purses his lips, and places the smallest of kisses against his hand.

Nikandros yanks his hand back as though burned.

Damen reaches toward the lion pin on his shoulder and removes it. His chiton drifts down his torso, pooling around his lap. He extends his arm, the pin golden and flickering in his hand against the candlelight. “Stop thinking,” he says, the hint of a smile in his words. He waits one moment, two moments, three. The rain increases in tempo against the tent. He almost has a thought of regret, of embarrassment, but his hand stays steady. He _knows_ Nikandros.

Nikandros lifts his hand toward his own garment, undoes the fibula, and places the pin in Damen’s outstretched hand. He meets Damen’s gaze squarely. Challenge accepted.

Fabric flies as Damen launches himself at Nikandros. He fists his hands in Nikandros’s hair, and crushes lips to his. The kiss is inelegant, consuming. Tongues battle for dominance as Damen forces Nikandros onto his back by sheer force of will. A groan tears from Nikandros’s throat as he hits the ground. Damen pulls back for a moment, worried. The pause is enough for Nikandros to throw his weight against Damen’s shoulder, and flip their positions. Damen flails for a moment, losing his grip on Nikandros’s hair.

But oh, this is better. Nikandros is kissing him now, forcefully. Nikandros’s right hand pulls against the hair at the nape of his neck, while his left grips Damen’s hip. Weight and pressure pushing against his body, Damen drowns in the sensation, mouth falling open as Nikandros invades. Damen tries to shift, to gain control, but Nikandros is strong against him. So instead Damen rests his hands against Nikandros’s ass and pulls, thrusting at the same time, bringing themselves together in all the right places. Nikandros groans again, and thrusts back. 

Before Damen can find a rhythm, though, Nikandros is on the move, his mouth pressing against Damen’s jaw, his ear. He whispers, “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

“Never,” gasps Damen, one syllable containing acceptance, acquiescence. Nikandros acknowledges this with a sharp bite to Damen’s earlobe, and Damen _whines_ for more. And suddenly Nikandros is everywhere, quick bites against Damen’s neck, his shoulder. One hand draws intricate patterns down his chest, while the other firmly –finally – graps Damen’s cock. And how does Nikandros know just what Damen likes, how does he know to twist his hand in just the right way, how does he flick his nail against the underside of Damen’s cock in a way that makes his hands scrabble for purchase against the soggy ground, to beg for more. He is not making any sense anymore, words tumbling from his mouth, “yes” and “more” and “please” mixing with the heady scents of petrichor and arousal. Then Nikandros’s lips wrap around the head of Damen’s cock, and Damen can tell Nikandros has never done this part before, because his control over the situation slips a bit. Nikandros’s tongue doesn’t quite know where to go, and there is a bit too much teeth, but experience is dwarfed by enthusiasm, and soon Damen is close to coming undone.

Nikandros must sense it, because he rises, once again claiming Damen’s lips in a bruising kiss. Damen’s hands are once again tangled in Nikandros’s hair, pulling at his curls, too hard, but Nikandros only moans against the pain. He thrusts against Damen, and Damen eagerly thrusts back. Thunder crashes above the tent, and Damen shouts, as though the lightning has struck the two of them, lighting them on fire, and he comes, with Nikandros following right after.

They lie there, hearts pounding, bodies trembling. Damen brushes away a stray curl of hair that is sweat-plastered against Nikandros’s neck, and breathes in the moment, wishing for it not to be over quite yet. Nikandros gropes against the floor of the tent, grabbing a cloth from behind him (which, Damen belatedly realizes, looks a lot like Damen’s chiton), and wipes away their sweat and seed.

Damen rises to his knees. He knows he should get up, should make himself presentable in case something happens and he is needed in the night. He definitely knows he should send Nikandros back to his own tent. A voice in his head, “stop thinking.”

He moves toward the pile of furs in the corner, settles into his makeshift bed. He extends his hand.

Nikandros meets his gaze, and grins. Challenge accepted.


End file.
